


The number you are trying to reach is no longer available

by Cuits



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuits/pseuds/Cuits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter Longmire gets a cellphone and somehow Hell doesn't freeze over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The number you are trying to reach is no longer available

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprl1199](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/gifts).



**Prologue**

 

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment he is having a coffee at the porch accompanied by his daughter, the morning sunny and cool and perfectly technology-free, and the next Cady is handing him the little evil device and leaving with a hasty and cowardly goodbye.

 

“Just give it a try, Dad,” she says as she retreats. “Take it as a rain check for that ballet recital you missed when I was eight.” And proceeds to shamelessly run away in her car.

 

“What the—”

 

He looks at the offending thing in his hand for half a second before the actual, unobtrusive, uncomplicated phone located inside his house and fixed to the wall claims his attention with its insisting chime. He absentmindedly puts the cell phone in the pocket of his jacket and goes to attend the call with a clear, tacit understanding of a non-aggression pact between the two of them. He intends to pay little to no attention to the damn cell phone and in retribution he only expects to be unbothered by it.

 

One can only hope.

  
  


**Outgoing call**

 

Walt has been the sheriff of the Absaroka county for longer than he cares to contemplate and if he has learned anything at all in all that time it’s that problems and crime tend not to follow steady patterns; there are weeks in which stolen sheep and speed tickets are all the sheriff's department has to worry about and then there are other kind of weeks. There are weeks  in which David Ridges tries to kill him, Henry gets finally exonerated and he hears a distant gunshot across the land that leads him to Branch lying in a pool of his own blood.

 

This kind of week.

 

Walt tries to stop the bleeding as best as he can with some feminine hygiene articles and old bandages he finds lying around the glove compartment—God and Cady only know why— and carries him to his car before he bleeds out.

 

"Boy, you have to stop getting shot like this."

 

He uses the car radio to warn the hospital of their arrival and accelerates as much as the motor allows, praying to an undefined god that no wild animal dares to cross their path. Branch mumbles semi-conscious in the back seat.

 

"My father," Branch murmurs and Walter doesn't know what to do with those two words. It's not like the boy is exactly aware of what it’s happening and it's not like he has been the paradigm of sanity lately either.

 

"It was my father," he insists, his lips pale and dry as the improvised bandage gets slowly soaked in thick blood.

 

"It's okay, Branch. I hear you."

 

They are a couple of minutes away from the hospital but in barely a quarter of that time Walt thinks about the pigeon clay equipment lying next to Branch, about what he knows of Barlow Connelly and his son, and makes a decision that probably has more to do with what his gut tells him than what his brains does.

 

"Ruby," he calls into the radio, "tell Vic to take Ferg and find Barlow Connelly. Approach with caution. He might be armed and dangerous."

 

"Barlow Connelly? Walt, what happened?" Ruby's voice is alarmed and concerned but the hospital building finally appears in his line of sight and he has no time for explanations.

 

"Not now, Ruby," he says cutting the communication and maneuvering the car into the ER entrance. In a couple of seconds six sets of expert hands take control of the situation, cutting Branch's shirt open and preparing him to be moved to a stretcher.

 

"Walt, " Branch sounds exhausted and Walter has been close enough to where the young man is now to recognize the effort of grabbing his arm. "Your wife. It was my father."

 

Walt follows the stretcher and the crowd of medical personnel around it into the building, until the doors of the operating room stop him.

 

He is dirty and covered in the other man's blood as he leans into the wall of the hallway and fishes into his pocket for the cell phone he has almost forgotten he possesses. Miraculously, it still has a bar left in the battery indicator and Walt wipes the blood out of his fingers as well as he can with his shirt before dialing the right sequence of numbers.

 

"Dad?" Cady sounds pleasantly surprised and vaguely amused as she answers the call, "You still have the phone. I feared you've drowned it in your morning coffee."

 

"I value my coffee far too much for that." He takes a deep breath before continuing the conversation. There are few things he dislikes more than putting her daughter in this situation but Branch's words burn him from inside out too strongly to do nothing about them. "Listen, Branch has been shot and he is in the OR right now."

 

"Oh my God, what happened?!"

 

"I'm not sure right now." He looks into the floor and scratches his forehead absentmindedly. "Look, I have to take care of some things and I've thought maybe there should be somebody here to talk to the doctors when he comes out." If he comes out, he doesn’t say.

 

"Sure. I'm on my way." And at that moment, Cady's voice sounds too much like her mother's for him to bear. "And Dad, promise me you won't do anything rash?"

 

"I'll call you later."

 

He puts the phone back into his pocket and heads for his car. He has his shotgun there begging him to be of use, and the need to beat the crap out of someone itches in his hands and coils low in his stomach.

 

He can hear the sound of the puzzle pieces finally falling into place as he starts the engine of the car. He’s got the right motive and the right hitman; he has just blamed the wrong selfish, rich, bastard.

 

Walt hits the road before knowing exactly where he is going, he just steps on the gas pedal and follows the horizon. The hot blood pumping into his veins is all he can hear.

 

"Walt? Walt, are you there?" Ruby's voice fills in the car as another vehicle appears on the horizont. "Vic has Barlow Connelly in custody. And a split lip."

 

He picks up the radio and takes the timing as divine providence when he recognizes the approaching car. "Copy that."

 

He waits for the other vehicle to get close enough before brusquely maneuvering, invading the left lane and forcing the other car out of the road and into a sudden and dusty stop.

 

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Longmire?" Jacob Nighthorse goes out of his ridiculously expensive car, full of aggressive indignation with his jaw set square and his hands fisted at his sides.

 

Walt grabs his shotgun and points its barrel at the other man before his feet even hit the ground.

 

Jacob's breath visibly catches in his lungs, his arms automatically up in the air and his face trying to cover his fear with a not so good poker face. "Now what? Are you going to shoot me for nothing?"

 

He takes a couple of steps towards Nighthorse flipping the safety off.

 

"You are going to tell me everything you know about the murder of my wife and of Barlow Connelly and then you are going to come to the sheriff’s department and put it all down in writing," he explains, pretending to be calm as his knuckles go white from grabbing the butt with steady force. "Or I will shoot you, but it won't be for nothing."

  
  


**Missed Call**

 

It takes twelve hours of surgery and a lot of blood that isn't his to save Branch Connelly's life. It takes a lot less time and effort to get Nighthorse's full confession and a deal to testify in trial in exchange for immunity for himself.

 

Branch spends the first two days completely sedated as the sheriff’s department gathers evidence against his father and Cady keeps an eye on him almost day and night. Walt doesn't like it one tiny bit.

 

Branch is arrogant and entitled but he could cut him some slack for that without thinking it twice. He was raised by Barlow Connelly after all. Walt can acknowledge that Branch has been through one  hell of a rough patch too: dead Cheyenne warrior trying to kill him while nobody believed him, his father shooting him with intent to murder...

 

His distrust of Branch has little to do with bad manners or bad luck. It doesn't even have anything to do with the younger man trying to get his job, but with the darkness Walt can see inside of him when he is against the ropes. It reminds him too much of a younger version of himself; too easy to irritate, too comfortable with violence, too self absorbed to see through his own pain and anger. He is not sure what would have been of that young Longmire, lost and angry after leaving the army, if he hadn’t had Henry's understanding and Martha's love by his side. Nothing good, that's for sure.

 

He doesn't know what Branch needs to fall out of this destructive path but he does know he would like Cady to be as far away from it as humanly possible.

 

The hospital room is dimly lit by the early morning sun and Walter Longmire reads the morning paper seated on the lonely chair at the corner. Of course that’s the precise moment Branch chooses to come back to the world of the living.

 

He groans and coughs and groans some more as his eyes flutter open, unfocused and confused, and Walt slowly folds the paper and goes for the glass of water with a straw conveniently prepared at the bedside table.

 

"You owe me an upholstery cleaning. Again."

 

Branch flinches as Walt helps him drink. The water probably burning the hell out of his dry and abused throat; intubation will do that kind of thing to you.

 

"Thank you," he says, his voice barely audible, raw and faltering due to pain and disuse.

 

Walts nods once, acknowledging his gratitude with the simple gesture . It doesn't really matter if he is thanking him for the water or for saving his life, the answer would have been the same either way.

 

"My father—" he tries to speak again before his own coughing interrupts him.

 

"He is in custody." By the time Vic got hold of Barlow he was already talking about self-defense and invoking the name of his lawyer so fast that he forgot to ask if his son was still alive. "Don't worry. Rest."

 

Walt is about to get  back to his chair, to wait for Cady while he reads his paper in complete silence but for the constant beeps of the machinery in the room when Branch’s broken voice pulls him back to his bedside.

 

"I'm sorry. For last year and—"

 

He was wondering if there was any way they were going to manage to avoid any real conversation. He was hoping against hope that silence and lack of accusations would be enough. He was clearly mistaken.

 

Walt sighs, defeated, ready to pull the metaphorical band-aid off and and be over and done with it.

 

"I’m reinstating you so the insurance will pick up the hospital bills, but when you get out of here you will be on probation under Ferg's command and I will not tolerate more crazy stunts.” Branch nods silently and Walter keeps going. "I also don't like you being anywhere near my daughter, although I can't do much about it. And I think you owe one hell of an apology to her, to Vic and to Ferg, but that is up to you. Are we clear?"

 

Branch nods once more, solemnly, and Walt considers matters settled as he goes back to his chair and resumes his reading. It's almost noon when he goes out of the hospital leaving Cady seated at Branch’s bedside again. He is already in a bad mood when he checks out the cell phone that has been on silent mode all morning and sees the four missed calls from the Mayor's office.

 

His days of giving a chance to the evil, devil device from hell are certainly coming to an end.

  
  
  
  


**Straight to voicemail**

 

_"Longmire! This is the TENTH time I try to reach you and I know that Ruby has passed the message along so I expect to see you at the Town Hall Charity Ball next Friday, shaved, sharp and in your best behaviour. I don't think I need to remind you that one of your deputies has been shot by his own father, who happens to be one of the most influential men in the state, after a more than questionable phase of peyote experimentation and you are in DESPERATE need of some good PR. Oh and Longmire, bring a plus one. I'm not that confident in your social abilities."_

 

Walt lets the call that go straight to voicemail and rests his hands and the cell phone on the bar counter as Henry serves him a cold beer.

 

"I’d heard that you had finally embraced this era of technological marvels, but seeing is believing." It's early in the evening and the Red Pony is far from being crowded yet so Henry gets another beer for himself and leans into the counter in front of him.

 

"Cady bought it for me. The jury is still out about keeping it."

 

As if on cue, the phone starts to ring and shake again, reproducing the chorus of a song Walt has never heard until recently.

 

"Is that Bon Jovi?" asks Henry excessively amused as Walter rejects the call again stopping the song about the cowboy being wanted dead or alive.

 

"Vic has tampered with my ringtone."

 

"You seem rather popular these days," says Henry looking pointedly the phone, "two phone calls in less than five minutes."

 

Walt silences the phone and hides it in his pocket. "It's the Mayor’s office. He wants me to go to the charity ball of friday," he says nursing the beer. "He says the sheriff’s department needs some good PR”.

 

"He is not wrong."

 

"No, he is not wrong."

 

At the far end of the bar a young, blonde woman asks for some mysterious drink Walter can hardly pronounce much less produce and Henry disappears for a few minutes before picking the conversation back up. "So, are you planning on going?"

 

He would like to say that he will see Hell freeze over before that happens but Walt knows there are battles that there’s no use trying to fight. "If we want Barlow behind bars we are going to need all the support we can get, so I don't think I have much of a choice." He takes a long sip of beer. "He wants me to bring someone. The Mayor."

 

Henry arches his eyebrows waiting for some elaboration on the matter. "Well, don't look at me. I will gladly go to jail for you but going to this ball is asking too much of our longtime friendship. Besides I would make a terrible date."

 

Walt snorts and sips and looks pointedly at Henry because they’ve know each other for far too long not to see where this conversation is headed. "I need a plus one, not a date."

 

"That, my friend, is the same difference."

 

The door opens and a whirlwind of twenty-something kids and cold air stomps into the place like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse and Henry sighs with an indulgent smile and goes to take their orders and serve their drinks.

 

“Is it about Martha?”

 

By the time Henry comes back to their conversation Walt is almost done with his beer and the white noise of people talking around the place has increased just enough to start being noticeable.

 

“It’s not about Martha.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“It’s not about Martha.” He is sure because he knows how losing Martha feels like, and how mourning her feels like, and how saying goodbye to her feels like. He knows it. He has done it several times for more than two years; first with the cancer diagnosis, then with her murder and later on, for many more months until he figured out the truth about what happened to her. “It’s about this freaking ball and the damn Mayor.” Henry procures him a new beer and he gives a small sip before letting it rest on the counter. “I’m thinking about asking Cady.”

 

Henry’s face of disgust is almost comical. “Why would you want to do that to her?” Henry drinks from his own beer as if trying to erase a bitter taste from his mouth. “Speaking as her Godfather you can’t do that to your daughter. Spending her friday night trying to keep you in check? Doesn’t sound like her definition of fun.”

 

“Sounds like nobody’s definition of fun.”

 

The phone of the Red Pony rings and Henry disappears again, leaving Walt temporarily alone with his thoughts and his beer, surrounded by some dozen of people who seems to be having a far better time than he is.

 

"The mysterious case of the dead cow in Ned Harlow's backyard is finally closed and Branch is still a jerk, which I guess it means he is getting better," says Vic seemingly appearing out of thin air. She takes off her deputy jacket and her sunglasses and claims the stool next to his. "That said, I'm officially off duty."

 

She sighs contently and smiles signaling for Henry to serve her a beer and Walter can see in the polite acknowledgment of the Cheyenne when he is about to be cornered.

 

"So, what were you guys talking about?"

 

Henry brings her the beer and leans with both arms on the counter with a conspiratory demeanor that makes Walt cringe and wish he had his cowboy hat on to hide under its brim.

 

"Well, Walt here needs a date to keep him in check at the Mayor’s Ball this Friday."

 

Vic opens her eyes in mock surprise and smiles like she has mastered the lost art of committing all the right mistakes and making all the bad choices.

 

"Sounds like fun."

 

Henry arches an eyebrow and doesn't say anything at all, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to contain a smirk without much success. He looks at him, intently, and Walt knows when he has been beaten at his own court.

 

"Well, if you are up to it..."

 

"Sure, I think I have a dress in a cardboard box that I haven't worn since Philadelphia."

  
  


**Incoming Call**

 

The ball ends up being not a completely and absolute living hell. Sparkly champagne cocktails and scotch older than her daughter run smoothly around the place, which probably is one of the reasons Walt manages to smile at most of the right people and… dance.

 

“Member of the council approaching. Smile. Oh, and she has not so secretly the hots for you. Dance with her.” The other reason being Victoria Moretti.

 

“You look very handsome, sheriff,” says the member of the council as they dance around. A civil, polite distance between them while they swing and turn.

 

“Thank you, ma’am.” He forcefully smiles and feels the need for another scotch.

 

When the music finally fades, an undetermined number of eternities later, he apologizes with a slight bow of his head and heads for the bar to down a shot of whisky in a single one gulp. He is not sure if either he or his liver can take much more of this social nonsense.

 

“I’d say we both deserve a break,” says Vic materializing at his side out of nowhere and entangling her arm with his to lead the way out of the room.

 

The dress that allegedly was hidden in a cardboard box until recently happens to be a slinky, black thing that conveys, more or less, every fear and concern that Walter had about the night. Under a false pretense of modesty, the dark cloth hugs and marks every single damn curve that’s usually disguised under her duty uniform and emphasizes the oscure make up of her eyes. It’s a very good, very bad dress.

 

"You look very nice tonight," he says, and it occurs to him that maybe it is something that he should have said at the beginning of the night. Or maybe not said at all.

 

Vic smiles, brightly and unguardedly and Walter notices her eyes shining a little too much as they walk through the deserted hallway that leads to the City Hall’s terrace.

 

"You don't look half-bad yourself." He has cut his hair, shaved closely and put on the precise suit, shirt, shoes and tie combination that Cady told him in no uncertain terms that he was to wear this evening.

 

“Thanks,” he says and looks to the floor regretting the last three glasses of alcohol. He is not drunk, but nothing good can come from the warm, relaxed sensation he is feeling right now.

 

They stop before reaching the terrace’s doors, or better said, Vic stops walking and makes him stop as well. The spot is less illuminated than the rest of the silent hallway and she manhandles him until his back is against the wall and she is stupidly close to him, with her slinky, black dress and her sparkling eyes and her flushed cheeks. He tries to look anywhere but at her and she starts to laugh like kids laugh at caged animals in the zoo.

 

“Are you drunk?” he asks because she is not one to typically giggle like that, and maybe he is not clear-headed enough to figure that out by himself.

 

“I am certainly not sober,” she answers and Walt nods once, to reassure himself more than in acknowledgement of what she has said.

 

He puts the hands that were against the rough wood of the wall on her bare, soft arms and puts only a little pressure. “I think that’s our cue to go.”

 

She doesn’t move, if anything, she presses back harder, getting a little bit closer. Vic studies his eyes and his face with slightly unfocused eyes.

 

“Do you like me?” she asks, and puts the palms of her hands against the wall at both sides of his waist, caging him a little more, studying him a little closer.

 

“You are my deputy.”

 

“The sun rises from the East,” she answers matter of factly and a little pissed off. “It’s a yes or no question, Walt. A monosyllable isn’t going to kill you.”

 

He begs to differ. He is pretty sure that right at this moment, either monosyllable will most probably kill him. For good.

 

“I don’t want to talk,” he says, which happens to be a serious miscalculation because her sudden smile is the epitome of mischief and she presses her body completely against him.

 

“Good. I don’t want to talk either.”

 

He feels like his tie is seriously planning on suffocating him and then she lifts on her tiptoes and kisses him. Kind of hard, biting lightly on his lower lip in a way that makes it impossible for him not to open his mouth and let her tongue slide against his own and just explore at her leisure.

 

When he manages to remember who they are and where they are—when he manages to actually care about it, he forces his chin up to stop the kiss.

 

“This is a really bad idea.”

 

“It doesn’t feel like a really bad idea.”

 

It feels exactly like that. Like the kind of really bad ideas that make entire empires go down in flames. It feels like crashing and burning.

 

She presses herself harder against him, her hands grabbing the lapels of his jacket and making him lean into her. He lets her kiss him again, he lets his mouth open to her again, he lets his tongue battle hers and his hands hold her waist.

 

When he breaks the kiss he is enough of an hypocrite to say, “you need to stop.” But he keeps glancing at her full, reddened lips.

 

“Make me,” she whispers at his ear, and she looks powerful, anciently mysterious and so self-assured that it should be impossible for her to look somehow young and naïve at the same time. It must be some kind of Philadelphia trick she has mastered over the years.

 

“I don’t think I could.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t think it is possible to make Victoria Moretti do anything she doesn’t agree to do.

 

She gapes, her hands still gripping his lapels, smiles like he has said the only possible thing she ever wanted to hear. She bites his lower lip again as her hands travel to his jaw, as soft and caring with her hands as daring and impulsive with her lips.

 

There is this alcohol induced clarity in which he recognizes that denial can only leave you so far and starts to kiss her back, really kiss her back. His fingers close around her waist and his mouth claims territory he hasn’t dared to contemplate before.

 

And that’s the precise moment his phone starts to ring and shake in the pocket of his jacket. She is the one to break the kiss this time but doesn’t pull back, still hanging on his lapels and pinned against him as he gets the cell and answers the call.

 

“Longmire,” he says, and he’d like to think he almost doesn’t sound out of breath as the caller presents himself. “It’s okay Branch. Go on.”

 

Vic rolls her eyes with such an exaggerated exasperation that Walt fears she might sprain something, and then she lets go of his lapels and takes a step back.

 

“Branch is such a jerk,” she says and he pretends he doesn’t hear her as he keeps hiding behind the call as if he could do it for forever.

  
  


**Text Message**

 

It’s a slow day of what has been a slow couple of weeks. He gets in the office in the afternoon and collects from Ruby’s desk the paperwork she has left prepared for him to fill in before barricading behind his bureau.

 

He is not a fan of the evening shift but it has its perks. The office becomes quieter, less crowded and more suitable for him to catch up on his reading of old unsolved files till something new comes up.

 

“Well, my shift is officially over,” Vic announces for everyone to hear. She goes to get her jacket, her sunglasses and her cellphone and starts to fiddle with it. “Gentlemen, have a nice evening,” she says to Ferg and himself saluting by touching two fingers to her temple before heading out.

 

She has barely left, the door still ajar and in the slow process of closing when his cell phone shakes twice inside his pocket. A text message, he has come to learn.

 

“Dinner and NOT talking at my house. Bring your morning coffee” he reads and doesn’t smile.

 

He puts the phone back in his pocket and keeps filling in all the due paperwork. He will wait until he is off the clock to answer that he will be there.

  
  


**Epilogue**

 

"The next time you feel nostalgic, make us both a favor and remind me where indulging you leads us to," says Henry, sounding more annoyed than worried, his posture casual despite his hands being up in the air as a barrel keeps pointing in their general direction.

 

"You are the one who proposed camping in this area," Walt protests.

 

"Because you wanted to camp like in the old days!" Henry answers indignantly. "I much rather prefer to sleep in a bed, where my old back doesn't have to deal with stones and can actually bend in the morning."

 

"Hey, you two!" shouts the kid with the gun, "shut up!"

 

Walt snorts while beside him Henry looks genuinely offended by the bad manners. "Who do you think exactly is going to hear us up here, son?"

 

They are indeed in the middle of nowhere, where they were supposed to be camping like when they were young and a little restless. Instead they have managed to find the only marihuana dealer of Wisconsin foolish enough to try to hide his little stash in an unmarked spot in the wild. Trouble seems to find them wherever they go, exactly like when they were younger.

 

The brat looks like he is barely out of high-school, all langley limbs and unfortunate pimps covering his face, too much nervous energy and the attention span of a puppy. Walt sighs tiredly. He almost feels sorry for him.

 

"I have to think! You don't let me think!"

 

Henry looks at him sideways and Walt forces himself to smile slightly, hoping to look as benevolent and trustworthy as possible and not at all as pissed off as he really feels.

 

"Do you mind if we put our hands down in the meantime?" he asks while doing so. "We are not as young as we used to, as my friend here likes to point out."

 

He seems to be considering it when something cracks an opportune branch somewhere behind the bushes and the kid nervously looks around with the gun still in his hands, pointing it anywhere but at them for a couple of seconds. Walt uses those couple of seconds wisely. He reaches blindly for a blunt object and throws it aiming at the kid's face for effect. It's not until the kid is knocked out on the floor and his cell phone smashed into pieces beside him that he realizes what the object he had hurled was.

 

"Did you plan the whole thing to get rid of your phone?" asks Henry amused while he checks the brat's pulse.

 

"No, but let's just call it a happy coincidence."

  
  
_**The number you are trying to reach is no longer available.** _


End file.
